


Insights

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Insights [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Development, Eventual Romance, F/M, Heartbreak, Solavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-12-21 11:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11943291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: Briallen Lavellen is the embodiment of Solas's latest mistake. But as he comes to know her, and as the world drifts ever closer to the edge of ruin, he just might realize that she's the best mistake he ever made.





	1. The Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> My goal with this fic is not to retell the story of Dragon Age: Inquisition, but to supplement it with a series of 'missing scenes' from Solas's point of view. I have often wondered what went through Solas's mind as he gradually fell in love with Lavellan, so this is my exploration of that idea.

There's a certain kind of stillness that can only be found at the heart of a maelstrom. It is the serenity of dissociation. Not numbness, not apathy, but existence apart from oneself. All of the emotions that should immobilize Solas - the fury and pain, the sorrow and regret - currently exist somewhere beyond the boundaries of his being. He knows they are present, swirling like the bilious clouds that have collected around the Breach, but he remains unaffected by them. He is calm.

Cassandra is not.

The conspicuously-armed woman haunts the dim cell like an unusually persistent shade. No, Solas silently corrects himself, more like a demon of rage. Sometimes when she casts her eyes on the prisoner - currently sprawled unconscious across a dirty bedroll - he could swear that her eyes glitter like twin tongues of russet flame. She paces the room with a hand resting on the hilt of her sword, and when she's not making noises of disgust, she pelts him with the same question again and again.

"Will she live?"

And he answers her with endless patience and perfect truth, "I am determined she shall."

Cassandra is hardly to be blamed for her fury. Her friend, employer, and religious leader is dead, along with hundreds of others. A conclave intended to bring peace to the land had resulted only in destruction, and now there is an ever-expanding hole in the sky which, left unchecked, will doom the entire world.

She's just directing her anger at the wrong target.

The prisoner lies before him, a pale, waifish, storm-tossed creature with a left hand that burns with sickly green fire. Her flaxen hair spills across the stone floor. Her liberally freckled face is pinched in pain. There's faint, brown blood writing on her brow and chin - the vallaslin of Ghilan'nain. A Dalish elf, masquerading as a human mage in hooded robes.

Little fool.

 _Unlucky_ little fool.

Or perhaps not so unlucky, he thinks as he takes her left hand in both of his. Against all odds, she still lives. She has absorbed magic that should have killed her, walked bodily through the Fade, and emerged again into the waking world, damaged but whole. He would not have believed such a thing possible of any mortal, let alone this bony, snub-nosed girl who looks like a strong gale might carry her away.

He concentrates on dampening the fluctuating magic of the mark on her hand. It crackles and hisses at him, as if to scold him for the negligence which allowed it to become affixed to the wrong person. A sound escapes him, low and frustrated. But he keeps his expression passive. Cassandra is still pacing nearby, and this is not the time to reconnect to the disembodied emotions still floating around him, waiting for an opportune moment to descend upon his heart and teach him how to hate himself all over again.

_Will she live?_

_I am determined..._

Perhaps it is foolish to entertain the hope that his patient will not only live, but that she will awaken in time to save the world from his latest mistake. But as night falls for the second time since she became his charge, he finds his admiration growing for this slip of a girl who just won't give death a chance to claim her.

She groans in her sleep, arches her back, and tosses her head until he fears she will do herself further injury. He places a protective hand between her head and the floor until she goes still and silent.

"Solas."

He lifts his head. Cassandra looks exhausted, her rage burning low as the shadows darken under her eyes. She is gazing at the prisoner. He waits in silence.

"She appears to be dreaming. You know something of dreams, do you not?"

He's a little surprised by the question. Although Cassandra has accepted his assistance, she has done so out of desperation. It is clear enough that she trusts neither him, nor his magic, nor his knowledge of the Fade. And yet it seems her mind is flexible enough to see certain practical applications of the very expertise that she distrusts. Interesting.

"You are asking if I can enter the Fade right now and spy upon her dreams."

"I am."

"You think they might shed some light on what happened at the Conclave."

"That is my hope," she confirms. Her hand still rests on the hilt of her sword. "Is it possible?"

It is _possible_ , of course. In the past - even in the _recent_ past - he has done far more than merely spy upon the dreams of others. For him, dreams have often been an effective way to locate people. To learn about them. To harm them. But it might be unwise to advertise that fact. So he takes his time, frowning as if he's thinking the matter over carefully. Then at last, he nods.

"Possible, yes. I think it worth the attempt, at least."

Cassandra replies only with an affirmative jerk of her chin, so he stretches himself out on the floor. The cold of the stones leach through his clothes and chill his skin, but he's slept in far less comfortable places. He closes his eyes. "Wake me immediately if her condition changes."

"I am not a fool" is the last thing he hears before he slips easily into sleep.

The Dalish woman isn't hard to find in the Fade, but when he glides like a wraith into her dreams, they are not quite what he was expecting. There is an undercurrent of dread, but it is an old fear: well-known, and well-worn. He finds himself standing, not in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but in a large forest clearing. On either side of the clearing are Dalish aravels, grazing halla, and elves gazing at one another with impassive faces. In the center, two Keepers face each other.

And between them stands a young girl with flaxen hair, freckled skin, and wide, scared eyes.

It's a warm day, and the clearing is filled with sunlight. It turns one Keeper's copper hair to fire. He stands a little behind the girl, with a hand resting upon her shoulder. The other Keeper - an older man - shades his eyes as he converses with the redhead. He is tall, and narrow, and he casts a thin shadow over the youngster before him. Nearby, the halla's white hides reflect the sunlight, making them look more like spirits than living, breathing creatures. There is something harsh about that light, and something ominous that lurks in the shadows. It is a beautiful day, but everything about it feels wrong.

The girl clearly feels it. She fidgets with her hands, bites her lower lip, and frequently twists around to look at a lean, pale woman who stands a little behind the redheaded Keeper. The woman could be an older version of the girl, such is their likeness. Her mother, Solas thinks, or possibly a much older sister. The woman's eyes are fixed upon the two Keepers as she slowly wrings her hands. She spares no glance for the child.

The conversation between the Keepers is sometimes muddled, sometimes inaudible, and sometimes nonsensical, according to the logic of dreams. It is the tone of their voices, rather than their words, that leaves the greatest impression. The red-haired Keeper's voice is tight, as if he is attempting to repress some strong emotion. The older Keeper speaks in a voice that is confident, calm, and cold. After a while, a few of their words become intelligible. There is talk of "magic," and "training," and at one point, the older Keeper comments that the girl is "very young." That is when the true purpose of this meeting of clans finally dawns on Solas.

At length, the Keepers' discussion seems to conclude. They nod to one another, and then the older Keeper steps forward and reaches for the girl's hand. She lets out a little cry of rage and fear and immediately begins to struggle. She is tugged away from the redheaded Keeper and the pale woman. She goes down on her knees, grabs hold of an exposed tree root, and kicks at the older Keeper when he tries to pry her fingers off it. "No! I won't go!" she cries, and then she twists herself around to appeal to the pale woman. "Mamae! _Mamae_!"

Her mother draws in a deep breath. "Be strong, Briallen. Be good. And be grateful for this chance, da'len." And then she turns her head away as if she cannot bear to watch any longer.

For a moment, the girl looks like all the fight has gone out of her. She stares at her mother with wide, lost eyes. The older Keeper takes advantage of her stillness and lifts her in his arms, and she hangs there, limply. But she swiftly recovers, and then she unleashes her full fury at the Keeper. She kicks and flails. She claws and bites. She rages like a wild, rabid beast in his arms. By the time he manages to cast a sleeping spell over her, there is blood dripping from a scratch across his cheek, and there is cold anger in his eyes.

As the dream dissolves around Solas, he watches the Keeper hand the sleeping child off to another member of his clan. The last look he gives her as she's carried away does not bode well for her future.

And then he awakens.

Cassandra's hand is on his shoulder, and at his side, the Dalish woman is groaning and shivering. The mark on her hand glows ominously bright. Fear grips him, but no. _No._ He won't give way to his emotions now. His personal storm has drawn in tighter around him, but he will hold it at bay, just as he will hold the power of the anchor at bay. He won't let either defeat him now. And so he spends the next hour focused entirely on keeping his charge alive.

He remains calm, and eventually, his patient stabilizes. For now.

"Did you learn anything?" Cassandra asks when the immediate danger is past.

The prisoner's hand is cupped between his own, and he finds that he cannot draw his attention away from it. It is a small hand. A deceptively delicate hand. It is the same hand that the Keeper reached for in the dream, and he doesn't know why that feels important.

"Her name is Briallen," he murmurs.

Cassandra utters a disgusted sound and stalks out of the cell.

And the maelstrom churns.


	2. The Herald of Andraste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so ashamed that this relatively short chapter took me a whole month to write! From now on, I'm going to do my best to stick to a two week posting schedule. (No promises though.)

Night doesn't fall over Haven. It creeps in under the shadow of the mountains, pools under the eaves of scattered buildings, and hisses at the campfires dotting the village. The undying green glow of the Breach blots out most of the stars, and the angry clouds that swirl around it conceal the rest. Night is a pariah here -  its presence known, but barely felt, and rarely acknowledged.

No one sleeps. The mages from Redcliffe sit around the fires and speak in whispers to each other, surrounded by shipments of lyrium. There are soldiers in the tavern nearby, drinking away their fear while a minstrel serenades them, somewhat incongruously, with a love song. Back at the Chantry, the Inquisition council is finalizing its plans and preparations. There is no rest to be had this night by anyone in Haven, for the fate of the world depends on what they do tomorrow.

Solas sits before a fire of his own, tucked away in a corner between two buildings. It is a secluded spot. Behind him rises the sheer face of a mountain. To his left is a lone pine, and to his right is a convenient stack of firewood. It is an ideal place to engage in solitary reflection, and he certainly has enough to think about.

By now, the leaders of the Inquisition are well aware that their duties won't be finished with the closing of the Breach. They know that the one responsible for its creation still lives, and that he has his sights set on the so-called "Herald of Andraste." But they don't truly know who or what he is. They might be inclined to underestimate this "Elder One," just as Solas once did. And there is no way that he can properly warn them without giving away too many truths about himself. Fortunately, the Inquisition has already received a dire warning in the form of Briallen's excursion into a terrifying future. That will have to do, for now. At least he can count on Cassandra to take the threat seriously.

He has less confidence in Briallen's ability to take  _ anything _ seriously. Ever since she awakened from her alarming three days of unconsciousness, she appears to have spent the majority of her time flirting with various Inquisition personnel, making sarcastic remarks about serious matters, and indulging in ill-timed displays of willfulness. Her tendency to seek him out and pelt him with questions might have endeared him to her if she ever showed any real willingness to learn from him. But she has a habit of arguing with nearly every point he tries to make, or simply ignoring his answers entirely. Sometimes she comes to him with questions about the Fade, but her attention appears to wander as soon as he starts talking. It's maddening.  _ She _ is maddening. Yet everything depends on her.

Magister Alexius was right about only one thing: Briallen is a mistake. But she's a mistake Solas has to live with. He can only hope that somewhere under the layers of ignorance, childishness, and volatility lurks a soul capable of defeating a would-be god.  
  
Solas is distracted from his thoughts by the sight of a slender figure standing on a nearby rooftop. It takes barely a moment for him to recognize it as Briallen herself. Apparently, she has escaped the council meeting and can think of nothing better to do with her time than to scale a house and stare at the sky. He watches her for a while, wondering what thoughts are running through her head as she gazes at the Breach. Is she concerned about what will happen on the morrow? She must know what's at stake. Even she could not be so young and foolish as to disregard the weight of responsibility resting on her slim shoulders tonight.  
  
She stands there for many minutes, her pale hair and upturned face taking on a green cast in the eerie lighting. Eventually she lowers her gaze and turns. While her features are indistinct from this distance, it's clear that she has just spotted Solas looking up at her.  
  
He's not sure what he's expecting her to do next, but she manages to surprise him when she nimbly climbs down from her perch and makes her way toward his campfire.

"Somehow I expected you to be closeted with the council until the small hours," Solas comments as she draws near.

She plops down on the hard ground beside him, as if in answer to an invitation he had not extended. "I have better things to do than listen to them talk in circles all night."  
  
"Standing on rooftops and paying visits to dull Fade experts, for instance?"

"Something like that."

Her gaze is turned toward the fire, and by its flickering light he can see the signs of care on her young face. There are worry lines across her forehead, and bags under her eyes. 

"Perhaps sleep would be the best use of your time," he suggests after a pause.

Her smile widens. "And now you're just trying to get rid of me."

"Not at all," he replies. It seems highly probable that she showed up at his campfire just to annoy him, but for some reason, he's in the mood to indulge her tonight. Perhaps it's the signs of weariness that he can see in her face, or perhaps it's because he can practically feel the tension in her body, like a strung bow. She's nervous, just like everyone else in Haven, and with more cause than most.   
  
For a while after that, they sit in silence. Occasionally Briallen picks up a few stray wood chips or pine needles and toss them into the fire. The flames burn brighter for a moment, highlighting her freckles and setting her blue eyes glittering, and then subside. After she has repeated this process several times, Solas begins to sympathize with the fire. Even forces of nature are not safe from Briallen's capricious habits.

"If your goal is to get scorched by sparks, you're going about it the right way," he finally points out.  
  
"Is it my skin you're worried about, or yours?" she asks without raising her eyes from the fire.

"I think most in Haven would agree that your skin is more valuable."  
  
That draws a sudden, harsh laugh from her, and the next handful of woodchips is thrown into the fire with considerably greater force. This time, a brief flicker of pain along his jaw informs him that at least one of the resulting sparks did reach him. He examines his clothes calmly to make sure they are not in imminent danger of bursting into flames.  
  
"Right, I'm valuable. The bloody Herald of Andraste, here to save the day in the name of a shemlen prophet. If the irony got any thicker, the cooks could slice it and serve it up with dinner," Briallen mutters. "But what about after the Breach is sealed? What happens to their 'Herald' then? Do I get to walk free?"  
  
Solas turns to examine her expression thoughtfully. There's a subtle look of pain in her eyes that he's only previously seen when she was in physical discomfort. He finds himself intrigued.

"You are not a prisoner here."

"No," she says bitterly, "I'm some sort of hero, and that's worse. That comes with hope and duty and the eyes of hundreds watching my every move. Prisoners can escape. Heroes can only fall off their pedestals."

"And here I suspected you enjoyed the attention."  
  
Finally, she meets his eyes. Hers are bright, glittering with firelight and some emotion he can't quite name. He's half expecting an angry outburst. He knows she has a temper, even if she usually manages to cover her rage with biting wit. He's seen the flashing fury in her eyes, the twisting sneer, the clenching of her fists. But he's never seen it directed at himself.

Now he's the one throwing wood chips just to see sparks.

But she laughs instead - her wide mouth grinning, bared teeth gleaming, and blue eyes dancing. The sound is bright and loud, a discordant note on this night of nervous whispers and suppressed fears. For a moment, it strikes him that she might be the only real and vital creature that he has seen in ages beyond counting.

But then she turns away, and he gives himself a mental shake. Pretty eyes and joyous laughter can hardly make up for her many defects of personality and understanding.

"You already think you know me," she comments, almost as if she can hear his thoughts. She still sounds amused.  
  
"On the contrary. I find you somewhat puzzling."

"But not the fun kind of puzzle," she guesses. "Not the kind that holds your attention for hours and gives you a sense of satisfaction when you solve it. I'm an inconvenient puzzle. I have pieces missing. I require too much effort for too little reward. You wish I would just go away."

"I do not. Your anchor is our best hope for closing the Breach and stabilizing the Veil."  
  
"And you just hate that, don't you?"

Solas only peers at her in silence. Has he been so very transparent? Has she sensed his resentment? Does she think him merely jealous, or is she aware that he considers her unfit for the role in which fate has placed her? The latter, judging by her own words. _'I have pieces missing.'_ It's a harsh assessment, but he's inclined agree with it. But if his disapproval bothers her, why does she keep seeking him out like this?  
  
Briallen finds a broken pine branch within reach and begins to prod the burning logs with it. She seems pleased when the branch begins to burn. The air is full of the scent of pine sap. She holds onto the branch just a little too long, and the flames begin to lick at her fingertips. He hears her breath catch softly before she tosses the branch onto the fire.

She's like a child learning for the first time that fire is hot. And the fate of the world rests in her palm.

He doesn't know quite why he does it. Her injury is so minor that she'll barely notice it within a few hours. But before he realizes it, he has taken her hand in his and he's examining her reddened fingertips. "It's nothing," she says, and he can hear amusement in her voice again, but he sends a little pulse of healing magic through her fingers anyway.

She's looking at him strangely by the time he releases her hand, as if he puzzles her, too. An awkward silence stretches out between them, and he finds himself wishing to break it. 

"Where would you go?" he asks suddenly. "If you left after closing the Breach. Would you return to your clan?"  
  
A shadow passes over Briallen's face. "No." 

Her eyes convey a series of emotions - sorrow, longing, resignation, and determination. Either she never learned how to hide her feelings, or she willfully refuses to do so. Her face has too much in common with an open book. And maybe  _ that _ is why she so often laughs when she should be serious. Perhaps the only way she knows how to conceal pain, fear, and anger is with humor. But there's no amusement in her eyes now. 

He wants to see more of her serious side. He wants to understand her. Perhaps that's why he asks quietly, "Clan Lavellan is not the clan of your birth, is it?"

Briallen's gaze immediately turns shrewd. "I never said so. Cassandra told me you snooped on my dreams while I was unconscious. Is that what you saw?"  
  
"I saw a young girl with magical talent changing hands between two Keepers," he replies. "She seemed… upset."  
  
A soft breath escapes Briallen. A sigh perhaps, or an unvoiced laugh. "I see. So you think I grew up bitterly unhappy in a clan not my own, and then I ran away, traveled across the sea, ended up in the Frostback Mountains by accident, and decided to take an interest in human politics just in time to get blown up at the Conclave." She pauses, tilting her head and smirking at him. "Well, you're half right, at least."

Solas has to chuckle at that. There is a quickness in her that he can appreciate, at times. "While your assessment of my thoughts is not entirely accurate, I confess that I'm curious which half of it is true."  
  
"The first half," she replies promptly. "I _was_ miserable in that clan, and I _did_ run away. Lavellan was actually my third clan. I stumbled across their camp when I was was only twelve. I still don't know why they let me stay. They already had a Keeper and a First, and magic runs in their bloodlines. They've never needed to take in mages from other clans. But they took me in."

There is a fond look in her eyes now, and her eyes are unfocused in a manner which makes Solas believe she's reliving her first meeting with Clan Lavellan and the days that followed. She was happy with them, that much is clear. But for some reason she left, and she doesn't intend to go back. There could be any number of reasons for that. She might have quarrelled with other members of the Clan and left for that reason. She might have done something so taboo that she was exiled. Or perhaps her clan really did send her to spy on the Conclave, as she has claimed in the past, and there is some other reason why she can't return to them. Solas can think of one.  
  
"How many mages are in the clan now?" he asks her.  
  
She offers him a wry smile that cannot hide the hurt in her eyes. "Three."  
  
"And Dalish clans usually limit themselves to three mages."  
  
"It depends on the size of the clan," she says as she turns her gaze back to the fire, "but yes. Three is usually the hard limit."

Solas considers her in silence. He can guess where this story leads, but he wants to hear her tell it. He wants to know what motivated her to leave her clan permanently when her homesickness is so evident.

"One of my friends in the clan has a daughter," Briallen eventually continues. "About… seven years old, I think? A few months ago, she froze part of a brook so she could walk across it. Came as naturally to her as breathing. The whole clan was just staring at this little one as she frolicked around, and she had no idea how much her world had just changed."  
  
"But you knew," he says, watching her face intently. "You saw yourself in her."

Briallen bites her lower lip. There is something complicated about the expression in her eyes. Narrowed with pain, but softened by tenderness. Hidden depths, he thinks, beginning to feel a trace of awe. There is more to her than he thought.

After a pause, she nods reluctantly. "The Keeper started talking about sending her to another clan… and I started getting nightmares."

Solas releases a soft breath as he gazes at her. It has been weeks since that hectic afternoon when they introduced themselves to each other between skirmishes with demons, and yet he feels like he's meeting her now for the first time. So this is the woman under the flippancy and pigheadedness. Here is a woman capably of vulnerability. A woman with empathy. A woman willing to make a heartbreaking sacrifice for the sake of another. 

Has she mislead him by design? Has she been acting a part, purposefully promoting his belief that she's more careless, more callous, and less perceptive than she truly is? Or has he been blind to her good qualities because he did not  _ want _ her to be worthy of the power she carries?

Is his pride to blame again?  
  
"When did you decide to attend the Conclave in disguise?" he asks gently. "Was it before or after you left your clan?"

"Before," she replies softly. "The war was making it dangerous for the clan to move around safely. We never knew when we'd cross into a battlefield, or when our camps might be attacked by templars or mages mistaking us for the enemy. When we heard about the Conclave, it was decided that we should send a spy to learn the result. I said I'd go. I planned to send them a message afterward with news about the Conclave, and an explanation for why I wasn't coming back."  
  
"Have you sent that message?"

"They sent one here first. They heard I was being held prisoner." A wry smile breaks through her serious expression. "A few elven members of the Inquisition have gone to explain the situation to them."  
  
"I see," is Solas's only reply. There is little else to say. She has given him much to think about.  
  
Briallen, too, seems to feel like the conversation has come to an end. Her expression shifts from rueful to pensive, and for a long time, she simply stares into the fire and loses herself to reflection. He wonders what she's thinking about. Is it the people she left behind, or the task that looms ahead? Is she thinking about the scared little girl she once was, or the girl she'd saved from a similar fate? Perhaps something entirely different occupies her mind, something he can't hope to grasp based on his limited knowledge of her. He has more to learn about the so-called "Herald of Andraste," and for the first time, that thought does not displease him. Oh, she is still maddening. Still so young and inexperienced and headstrong. But sometimes a little madness can be intoxicating.

Gradually, her eyelids begin to droop. Solas watches covertly as the warmth of the fire begins to lull her into a doze. Then he sees her upper body sway a bit to one side, and he reaches out to brace her shoulder.  
  
Her eyes blink open. She looks at him questioningly.

"Perhaps you should lie down," he suggests.

And so she curls up in a ball on the hard-packed earth, her freckled face turned toward the firelight. And Solas continues his midnight vigil, losing himself in a reverie of a rather different sort than he indulged in earlier. Because while Briallen is still the embodiment of one of his worst errors in judgment, it doesn't follow that she must compound his error with her own failings. She is barely more than a child. She is volatile, sardonic, and coquettish by turns. She has a lot of growing up left to do, and much wisdom left to acquire. But she is also good, resolute, and brave.

_ 'Heroes can only fall off their pedestals,'  _ she said, and yet her heroism dates back before she ever came to the Conclave. Saving the world is certainly a daunting task. But subjecting oneself to loneliness for the sake of others… that is, perhaps, even more difficult.

He would know.

The night stretches on. The clouds overhead revolve lazily around the Breach, ever shifting, but never parting. On the ground, the fires around Haven burn low. The subtle hum of murmured conversation gradually dies. Everyone feels the slow, creeping approach of the dawn, and with it, an uncertain future.

Everyone except Briallen. In the cold hours before sunrise she sleeps, and Solas keeps watch.


	3. The Survivor

The wind is brutal. It howls through the mountain pass and charges toward the valley below like wolves catching the scent of their prey. It carries tiny shards of ice that pelt any exposed stretch of skin and leaves it smarting. It carries away voices or drowns them out, leaving the shivering refugees from Haven without the means to communicate except by sign and gesture. It lashes at their tents and tries to steal their fire when they make camp. It pummels them, wails at them, and sucks the breath from their lungs.

And then it dies.

The night falls utterly still. The world around them is muffled in blankets of snow, and the refugees are similarly muffled, wrapped in blankets of their own and holding their tongues as if they've forgotten how to speak. A few sport frozen tears on their lashes. Others look too weary to feel anything.

Solas feels enough for all of them. In the calm after the gale he moves through the camp, applying his talent for healing magic wherever it is needed. It is exhausting work - especially after what he's already been through this night - but it doesn't require enough concentration to keep him from from reliving the siege of Haven over and over in his mind. 

He sees the hoards of red templars pouring into the valley, their progress lit by bobbing torches. He remembers the brutal close combat in the streets of Haven as fires raged and innocents screamed. He pictures Briallen, single-handedly cutting swathes through the enemy ranks with lightning strikes and blasts of energy. He recalls the savage smile she wore as templars fell around her, and the inner storm that lit her eyes.

She was still smiling when the shadow of the dragon fell over her and she ordered her friends to run. Her voice was clear and sharp and utterly determined. Death was coming for her, and she was not afraid.

Cassandra obeyed the order, herding Solas and Varric away. They ran for their lives to escape that death-trap of a valley, and they only barely reached safety before the roar of dislodged snow and rocks proclaimed that the Herald of Andraste had accomplished one last miracle. The attackers disappeared under mountains of white, and the inhabitants of Haven escaped… without their hero.

It was sensible to run. Solas knows that well enough. Remaining at Briallen's side would have doomed him to share her fate, and for what purpose? There is far too much at stake for him to throw his life away recklessly. Corypheus is still very much at large, and Solas's people still need him. Briallen was just one person - a Dalish woman, at that. He will honor her memory and move on.

Having resolved this, he continues to fret silently about her fate as the night wears on.

None of the refugees around him seem to know where they are, and none seem to care. The only thing that matters to anyone is that they've escaped Haven. Being lost is acceptable if it means losing Corypheus. In that respect, the snowstorm earlier was a boon, as it effectively hid their progress. 

For his part, Solas doubts that Corypheus even made an attempt to follow them. He might have succeeded in killing the Herald, but he lost an army in the process. Most likely, he is licking his wounds and rebuilding his forces. Besides, the Inquisition was never his target in the first place. It was Briallen he came for.

Briallen. As Solas steals a moment by a campfire to consume a mug of soup, her image comes to his mind unbidden. Youthful, freckled features. A mouth too wide for her face. Pale blue eyes that twinkled with irrepressible humor. Flaxen hair forever working itself loose from the braids and ponytails meant to tame it. A deceptively frail body moving with singular grace and steady purpose. No one in Haven was more alive than she. It is almost impossible to believe that she's gone.

It is also strange to think that he spent most of their time together nursing an almost irrational dislike of her. He resented her for carrying the anchor that belonged to him. He disapproved of her bewildering blend of coquetry, impetuosity, and intractability which seemed to mark her as a shallow child. He feared the tug of fascination he felt toward her, despite all her flaws. But in the end, it only took one illuminating conversation to convince him that he was wrong about her. All the traits that he most disliked in her could be viewed in a more favorable light. Her coquetry grew out of her natural charisma. Her impetuosity was a product of her quickness of mind. Her intractability could better be described as strength of purpose. She was a half-formed creature, not yet grown into her potential, but the elements of greatness were there. He just couldn't see them through his own prejudice.

He sees them now, too late for it to matter.

Overhead, the clouds roll away, and the stars come out for the first time in recent memory. Solas can even make out the pulsing green scar across the sky where the Breach used to be. He can't look at it without thinking of Briallen, but that's hardly surprising. He's been thinking of little else since he left her behind.

Cassandra, too, is staring at the sky. Her thoughts must be moving parallel to his own, for all at once she announces, "I'm going back for her."

Silence falls over the camp. Hundreds of eyes turn toward the Seeker. Solas can see hope mingled with exhaustion on every face, and he marvels at these humans' capacity for faith. Do they still believe that the Herald might have survived? Do they suppose their goddess protected her from thousands of tons of rock and snow? Why not? It is hardly the strangest thing Andrastians believe.

And yet, hope is contagious. By small degrees he can feel it unfurling within his own breast, like a flower in bloom. After all, he did not  _ see _ her die. He has no body to bury. He never explored Haven's every nook and cranny. Could she have found shelter somewhere?

Another possibility dawns on him, turning his insides to ice. What if Corypheus had not intended to kill her, after all? What if he'd taken her with him? There is no comfort in this conjecture. Surely death would be a preferable fate.

Cullen's voice is a welcome distraction. "I'll go with you," the commander says, moving to Cassandra's side. 

"You should take a few scouts with you," Leliana suggests. She's sitting nearby in an open tent with a map spread out on the ground before her. How like her to eschew rest in favor of work, Solas thinks. But he doubts she'll find that map particularly helpful. If humans had accurate maps of the the Frostbacks, they would never have forgotten the existence of a certain stronghold to the north.

Two scouts are chosen to accompany Cassandra and Cullen on their mission, and preparations are made for their departure. It isn't until they are on the verge of leaving camp that Solas approaches Cassandra.

"I will come too," he announces.  
  
Cassandra looks at him with narrowed eyes, as if she doesn't trust his motives. He holds her gaze silently, and eventually her features relax. "A mage could be useful in this search," she admits. "I'm a little surprised, though. I did not think she was a favorite of yours."

"Neither did I."

Cassandra watches him for a few more moments in silence, and then she nods. "Come, then."

Staff in hand, he begins to follow her out of the camp. But then a gentle voice calls him back.

"Solas," Mother Giselle says as she rises from the bedside of a shivering, injured soldier. "Your skill as a healer is still needed here."

Solas stops short and looks at Giselle. Her face is pinched with weariness, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. Her eyes hold a silent plea, and he cannot deny it, despite the thrum of rebellion in his heart. A sigh escapes his lips in a cloud of white, and he turns back toward the rows of wounded stretched out on damp bedrolls. 

Cassandra spares him another glance, and then she leaves the camp without a word.

"Thank you," says Mother Giselle.

"Of course," he replies calmly. "It was almost certainly a hopeless errand, anyway."

"I don't know about that," she says, kneeling once more beside the wounded soldier. "To lose hope completely is to doubt the Maker. If it was his will that the Herald survived, then she still lives."

Solas leans on his staff, watching her thoughtfully. "Sometimes I envy your faith, Mother Giselle."

She smiles wanly. "You have faith, Solas. In yourself, in magic, in the Fade. I have not known you long, but I know this much about you. Your faith is not deficient, but perhaps it is misplaced. I say this only because I sense your doubt - or is it despair? Perhaps you should look beyond your own experience for something to believe in."

Solas crouches down to check the pulse of an unconscious young scout. Frowning, he touches her forehead, and then his lips form grim line. A high fever. This one is not likely to last the night, even with his magic. He'll do what he can for her anyway.

"You give me too much credit," he says without looking up from his task. "I am not always so confident in my abilities. But though I find the idea of your Maker interesting, he is little comfort to me."

"Ah. But I was not speaking of the Maker in this case."

He lifts his head, giving her a questioning look.

She's still wearing that tired little smile. "I was speaking of Briallen." 

"Briallen?" he repeats, a little surprised to hear the Chantry mother referring to her by name instead of as 'the Herald.' He considers for a moment. "You mean apart from her supposed divinity?"

"Divine blessing," Mother Giselle corrects.  

He has to smirk at the distinction, but the expression fades as he channels healing energy into the failing body of the scout before him. "You saw more in her than I did from the first, didn't you? She is more than the Herald of Andraste to you. You are fond of her."

"I think she has many fine qualities, and many more surprises in store for us. That is all."

"She is…  _ was _ so young," Solas murmurs, rising and stepping away from the scout. There is nothing more he can do for her. It is a familiar feeling.

"Then it is fortunate that we are not," Mother Giselle states serenely. "She will not lack for guidance from more experienced minds."

Solas turns to study the Chantry mother for a moment. "I believe you just called me old," he says in a flat voice, but he can't keep the corner of his mouth from twitching.

She only smiles and turns her attention to another patient.

As he does the same, he considers her words. There is wisdom in them, even if he can't match her seemingly inexhaustible supply of hope. In the midst of his doubt, there is at least one thing he's certain of. If Briallen returns to the Inquisition alive, she will have his faith, and his loyalty… at least for a time. He owes her that much.

He's not certain how much time passes while he goes through the motions of checking on his patients. All he knows is that his attention is suddenly reclaimed by Mother Giselle, who lets out a wordless exclamation and then says, "They are coming back."

Solas looks inquiringly at Giselle, and then he follows her gaze toward the mountain pass. In the far distance, he can make out four tiny figures moving away from the cleft in the mountains and toward the camp. The largest of the figures looks oddly proportioned, but as it is little more that a dark dot against the starlit snow, Solas isn't sure why. 

He tries to turn his attention back to the wounded. There's no point watching the search party's every step as they make their way back to camp. But he's not the only healer at work, and at this point, few of the wounded are still in need of immediate aid. He soon finds himself at leisure again to turn his eyes toward that snowy rise, and he can now see why one of the figures struck him as odd. It isn't one figure at all, but two - a small body carried bridal style in the arms of another.

His breath catches, and he takes a few steps toward the edge of camp before he checks himself. No, he's not going to make a spectacle of himself by running out to greet them. They will arrive soon enough.

"Solas," Mother Giselle murmurs, squinting toward the approaching figures. "Your eyes are younger than mine. What do you see?"

"They found someone," he replies calmly. "I believe it is the Herald, but I cannot tell for certain yet."

Certainty comes a few minutes later when he recognizes Briallen's long brown coat and that pale hair which, at this distance, seems almost to blend into her fair skin. It is Cullen who bears her. Cassandra walks briskly at his side, and the two scouts trail behind. 

"It is she," Solas breathes.

Mother Giselle lets out a sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker. I will prepare a cot for her at once."

When the search party finally reaches the outskirts of the camp, Solas is waiting to meet them. There is a dazed look about all of them, as if they still can't believe that their mission was a success. Solas can hardly blame them. His own joy is still warring with a sense of unreality as he sees Briallen up close, shivering and only half-conscious in Cullen's arms, but gloriously alive. Her ponytail is a matted mess, her cheeks have turned red from windburn, and her lips are an alarming shade of blue. To him, she seems the most beautiful thing he has seen in many ages.

"Mother Giselle has readied a place for her," Solas informs Cassandra and Cullen, gesturing for them to follow.

"I fear frostbite," warns Cassandra as she falls into step beside him. Cullen follows behind with his precious burden.

"I can treat it, so long as it isn't too severe."

"She was in the mountain pass as we reached it," Cullen says. "To travel all that way alone, and in that snowstorm we had earlier…"

"It is a miracle," Cassandra murmurs reverently.

No, Solas thinks, not a miracle. Not unless Cassandra regards Briallen's bloody-minded determination as miraculous. The willfulness that he once deplored in Briallen has just saved her life. She faced death with a smile and then  _ refused to die _ . A dragon could not kill her, and neither could a would-be god. Somehow she escaped an avalanche, and then she survived a nighttime trek through a mountainous wilderness in harsh winter weather. So perhaps a miracle  _ has _ taken place, but it is one of Briallen's own making.

Mother Giselle is waiting for them under a tent near the center of camp. Beside her is a wooden cot with a fresh bedroll spread across it, and Cullen wastes no time in depositing the Herald upon it. A soft sound escapes her as the warmth of Cullen's body retreats, but Giselle covers her with a fennec fur blanket and her protests fade. Her shivers continue, but that in itself doesn't alarm Solas. He would be far more concerned if she  _ wasn't _ shivering.

Cullen walks away after a few murmured words with Mother Giselle, presumably to update Josephine and Leliana on the Herald's condition. Cassandra lingers behind, arms crossed over her chest. After meeting her eyes, he knows what she's going to say before she says it.

"Will she live?"

Solas smiles faintly. He pictures the cold, darkened room where she last spoke those words to him over Briallen's unconscious body. Back then, she spit out the words in anger. Now, she says them with hope.

"I am determined she shall," he replies softly.

Cassandra returns his smile, runs her eyes over Briallen's shivering form once more, and then follows after Cullen.

Solas takes a seat on the edge of Briallen's cot with the intention of checking her extremities for frostbite. But no sooner does he take one of her small hands in his than he finds himself gazing into her pale ocean eyes. She is awake, more or less, but obviously confused.

"Solas?" Her voice is weak and raw.

"Aneth ara, lethallan," he says gently. "You have made quite the journey this night."

Her cracked lips form a small smile. "Miss me?"

A breath of laughter escapes him, and her eyes sparkle when she hears it. "You have been greatly missed by all," he assures her. "Now you should take the opportunity to rest. I am going to make sure you came through your ordeal in one piece."

She hums softly, and after a few moments she closes her eyes. There's no further sound nor movement from her as he continues his examination. Judging by her slow, steady breaths, she has slipped into a deep sleep. Solas soon concludes that she is not frostbitten - merely a bit nipped. With a bit of healing magic, a few more blankets, and a fire burning nearby, Briallen's shivers finally subside. 

He watches her sleep for a while, lost in memories of the two previous occasions when he did so. Fate seems determined to show him Briallen at her most vulnerable, and yet all he can think of now is just how indomitable she truly is.

When he finally tears his eyes away from his charge, he finds himself looking at Mother Giselle instead. She is crouched next to a sleeping scout on the other side of the tent, but she meets his eyes with a smug expression. She doesn't have to say a word for him to catch her meaning. Her faith has been answered. What of his?

Solas ponders that question for barely a moment before it brings a smile to his face. His faith in Briallen is like a playful whisp - a fragile spirit waiting to become something greater. But it exists. He can feel it now, thudding like a second heartbeat in his chest, and he knows just what to do with it. An uncertain future stretches out before Briallen, but he can give her a little push in the right direction. 

He can give her a place to call home.

The smile lingers on Solas's lips as he turns his gaze northward. Snowy peaks rise against a sea of stars, and somewhere hidden among them, Skyhold awaits.


	4. The Inquisitor

The view from Skyhold is breathtakingly familiar. These mountains are like old friends to Solas, and his heart aches with recognition. Rivers may change their course and castles may fall to ruin, but mountains take longer than a few paltry millennia to change their faces. If he turns his eyes away from the crumbling towers and the bustle of human activity around him, he can pretend for one precious moment that he has journeyed back to a better era. But only for a moment. Soon his attention is drawn back to the here and now - to a version of Skyhold that has seen far better days.

The courtyard below him is in chaos. Emergency repairs are already in progress to prevent the imminent collapse of some of Skyhold's weakest structures. Rubble is being cleared away, tents are springing up to house the wounded, and a new stable is starting to take shape at the far end of the lower courtyard. Cullen has established his temporary headquarters at the base of the stairs leading to the upper courtyard, and it seems he has not stopped working since his arrival at the stronghold yesterday. Solas has never seen him look so exhausted.

There is a constant stream of messengers to and from Cullen's desk, and sometimes Solas can hear snatches of their conversations over the sounds of construction. What he hears gives him some insight into the workings of the Inquisition and the ways in which its leaders intend to make the most of their new headquarters. On the whole, he is satisfied with their plans. Memories of a time when he walked these ramparts as Skyhold's sole master still give him a pang, but that will pass. He will find his place here. Indeed, he has already claimed a tower room for his personal use. It will be easy enough to bury himself in his studies there while others make decisions about the repair and defense of his former home.

As he stands there on a parapet walk, leaning against an intact merlon and letting his mind wander, he hears a familiar and welcome voice below. It is a clear, bright sound, touched with laughter, and he finds himself smiling almost involuntarily. Briallen is in the lower courtyard, speaking animatedly with Cullen. From the few words and phrases that reach Solas, he deduces that she is lecturing Cullen about his sleeping habits (or lack thereof), but she does so with typical charm and humor.

Before long, Cullen is smiling ruefully. And then, after Briallen says something that Solas doesn't catch, his smile turns warmer, softer, and far more sentimental. The realization hits Solas like a jolt of electricity. _The commander is smitten._ It shouldn't come as a surprise, perhaps. Briallen has engaging manners and a tendency to flirt - no doubt half the Inquisition is taken with her. But the weary, ever-serious commander? Solas was not expecting that, somehow.

Briallen is gazing back at Cullen with an open, fond expression. Are Cullen's sentiments mutual? Solas feels strangely ill at the thought.

The interaction continues below, but Solas turns his gaze back toward the mountains. He appreciates their solidity even more after his brief glimpse into the heart of the commander.

There is something inherently tragic about mortal love. He has seen its flames burn hot and bright, but it is always smothered too soon. Briallen is young by any measure, but she will never live to be old by the standards of her ancestors. Thus, she will never experience the kind of love that matures slowly over thousands of years - a love that settles so deeply into one's core that without it, one can never be whole again.

Not that Solas has ever experienced a love like that. He has always been preoccupied with _other_ matters.

He tells himself that the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is grief over the fleeting nature of Briallen's existence, and nothing more. It certainly has nothing to do with that smile she gave Cullen a moment ago.

His reflections are interrupted by the sound of light, quick steps on the stone stairs leading up to his perch. He turns his head to catch sight of pale hair and freckles out of the corner of his eye, and a smile spreads across his lips unbidden.

"Spying?" Briallen asks as she joins him. "I saw you watching Cullen like a little gray-eyed hawk up here. Learn anything interesting about my commander?"

My commander. Solas experiences another sharp jolt and almost winces visibly. He purses his lips for a moment, watching her expression, and then he says in a tone that he hopes is suitably calm, "Is he indeed your commander? I have seen how he looks at you, but I was not certain of the nature of your relationship."

Briallen's smile dims. She stares at him blankly for a long moment, and then she utters a peal of laughter sharp enough to make him wince in earnest. "Solas, I never would have guessed you were the type to play matchmaker. Cullen and I? You know I would drive him to madness within a senight, don't you?" Then she sobers and her brow furrows slightly. She seems to be thinking back over his words. "What do you mean, you've seen how he looks at me? He's always kind, but I think my presence wearies him sometimes. He's so old."

Solas has to chuckle at that, although it's not exactly reassuring to hear a man several millennia younger than him described as 'old.' "He cannot be much more than thirty-five, I should think. Maybe less. But I suppose to one of your tender years..."

Briallen jabs a finger at him. "Don't start that. Yes, I know, you still think of me as a child. You must be horrified that they put me in charge of the Inquisition, aren't you? Well... I'm a bit horrified too, come to think on it."

The Inquisition. Briallen is the Inquisitor. That was what she meant by 'my commander.' Solas feels equal parts relieved and foolish.

"Anyway," Briallen continues, blithely unaware of his thoughts, "That's not what I mean when I call Cullen old. He's not old in years or body, but in his head, I think he's lived at least a century. He seems exhausted all the time. He leads his forces like a stately but elderly general who cannot understand why he has been called out of retirement."

"You are too severe on him," Solas tells her, but he can't help smiling a little at her description. There is indeed sometimes a bewildered look about Cullen, as if he isn't sure how he came to be where he is, and he's wondering when it's all going to be over. But that probably isn't something to laugh at. Solas knows little of his history, but he is observant enough to realize that Cullen's scars run deep. He has seen too many warriors with those same haunted eyes to doubt their meaning.

"Perhaps," Briallen admits. "I know he has his reasons. I don't think he's led a very happy life - at least not for a while." She turns to gaze speculatively at Solas, her brow puckering in another frown. "How _does_ he look at me?"

"Like you are a perfect, unblemished flower blooming in the churned-up mud and gore of an endless battlefield."

Her breath catches audibly, and her pale eyes widen. "But I'm not," she protests softly. "I'm not unblemished. You know I'm not."

"To my mind," he murmurs, "you would be less fascinating if you were. But you can expect a former templar to have more romantic notions about purity."

Her expression, which had been almost frightened a moment before, turns warmer. A bit of her usual glow returns to her eyes. "That is the second time you've called me fascinating, you know."

"I believe the first time was hypothetical."

She shrugs, as if to say she'll take it anyway. Then she looks toward a snowy mountain peak. "I'm glad you told me. I flirt with everyone. It's a game - one most people either know how to play, or watch from the sidelines in amusement. No one is supposed to be hurt by it."

"You juggle with people's hearts. Imagine the damage if you were to drop one."

"But I don't want their hearts," she protests. She lets out a sigh of frustration and turns away from him. As she takes in the sight of the mountains, she murmurs, "I will be more careful."

"I know you will. You are impulsive, but never cruel," he says.

Silence falls between them. Briallen appears to be losing herself in the same view that absorbed him earlier. Perhaps she, too, is feeling the weight of years that clings to this place and is taking comfort in the timelessness of these peaks.

After letting her brood for a little while, Solas finally comments, "So, it seems I must grow used to calling you by a new title. Do you like 'Inquisitor' better than 'Herald of Andraste?'"

A soft smile curls her lips, and she finally turns back to him. "Infinitely. But don't you start calling me 'Inquisitor' all the time."

"I feel I should, at least in mixed company," he says apologetically. "It will not add to your legitimacy if a common elven apostate calls you by your first name."

Briallen lets out a harsh breath, but she is far too intelligent to deny the truth of his words. She may be young and inexperienced, but he knows she understands the importance of playing a role for the greater public. After thinking for a moment, she says, "When we are alone, then."

"When we are alone, you are Briallen."

"Bri," she says. "Briallen is still too formal. That's my name when I'm being scolded."

Solas has to smile at that. She has certainly received a few scoldings from him over the course of their acquaintance, but evidently he has been granted leave to use her nickname in spite of it.

"All right," he murmurs, "Bri. I will try to remember."  
  
She flashes a smile at him so warm, so confiding and affectionate, that it robs him of speech. For a moment he just gazes at her in silence, feeling as if the stone beneath his feet is crumbling and he's seconds from a freefall.

This is inconvenient.

He turns his gaze away from her and feels rationality begin to return. The wall feels solid under him once more. He decides it's time for a new subject. "What do you think of Skyhold?"

Briallen bites her lower lip before commenting, "It's rather inspiring. There's just something about this place. It's a little bit wild, and full of stories."  
  
Intrigued, Solas turns to study her. She looks pensive now. The sparkle is gone from her eyes, so Solas decides he is safe from a repeat of his recent loss of equilibrium.

"A little bit wild?" he repeats curiously.

"A lot of people have tried to tame this place," she says with a vague wave of her hand. "You can see old repairs and renovations. Humans tried to claim it after its builders left, didn't they? But they didn't quite manage it."  
  
Solas lifts a brow. "An interesting assessment. So what of its original builders?"  
  
"They were wild too. Just like these mountains, and just like that wide open sky." Briallen tilts her head back and blinks up at the clouds passing overhead.

"And the stories?" he prompts.

She looks back at him with a hopeful glint in her eye, and he steps closer to her without thinking. She's like a mesmer today, drawing him in against his better judgment. It is satisfying to stand with her like this as the wind buffets their bodies and sets a lock of her hair dancing against her cheek. Her left hand is resting on an embrasure, and somehow his right hand finds its way next to it. Close enough to touch, but not touching. He would appreciate the metaphor if he were paying attention.

"You'll find them all in the Fade, won't you?" Briallen asks. "You must already have seen some of Skyhold's history, since you knew it was here."  
  
"I have seen a fair amount." Just not in the Fade.

"So it was ours, right?"

"It was elven, yes." When she lifts her brows expectantly, he chuckles and continues, "It was originally the stronghold of a rebel leader. Its remote location afforded secrecy to him and safety to his followers."

"What was he rebelling against?"

"Oh, the usual, I am sure. Oppression, tyranny, atrocious fashion trends…"

She snorts.

"Eventually Skyhold was abandoned. Many centuries later, it was discovered by humans."

Briallen digests this severely abridged version of the keep's history in thoughtful silence. Finally she asks quietly, "How long have you known Skyhold was here?"

Ah, yes. He has been waiting for her to ask this particular question since they arrived. He even braced himself for the possibility that she might mention it within hearing of the rest of the council, so he should probably be grateful that she's keeping the matter between them. Perhaps she is allowing even her closest allies to believe that divine providence drew her to Skyhold instead of Solas's careful instructions.

"For some time," he murmurs.

"At Haven?"

"Before."

Her expression darkens. The lines across her brow and the firm line of her mouth make her look older. Harder. "You knew there was a defensible position a few days' march from Haven. You didn't think to pass that information on to the council?"

He watches her in silence. She has her answer. What more can he say? Of course he knew of Skyhold's existence, and of course he didn't speak of it to anyone. Skyhold was his, and he thought it very likely that he would have need of it again. Why would he hand it over to a few temporary allies who barely even countenanced his presence in the Inquisition?

To do so would have been madness, or so it seemed. It was Briallen who changed his mind.

After watching him for a while, she continues, "It was because you were unwilling to give Skyhold to a human organization, wasn't it? But then you ran out of options."

"I did not give it to a human organization," he points out quietly. "I gave it to you."

She lifts her brows. Her lips part, but no sound emerges from them. For a second or two, she seems baffled, but then she says slowly, "You didn't know then that I would become the Inquisitor. If I hadn't, I couldn't claim any sort of ownership over Skyhold."

"Of course I knew. You were the only real option."

"Flattering."

"It should be. You are remarkable, and they all see it. And though I allowed myself to become mired in prejudice for a time, I see it too."

Briallen steps away from the embrasure, and Solas watches her hand slide away from his with a hint of regret. She looks shaken, but at least the anger which kindled her eyes mere moments earlier has fled. It appears he has given her something to think about.

"I would like to understand you," she says in an oddly distant tone, "but I don't think I ever will."

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual."

A faint smile curls her lips, but there is a hint of sadness in her eyes as she turns away. She drifts across the parapet walk toward the stairs. "I am an open book, lethallin. You are the mystery." She disappears down the steps to the lower courtyard before he can reply.

It is just as well, perhaps. Theirs was a strange conversation, richer in unspoken thoughts and feelings than in utterances. And it had led, at times, onto dangerous ground. He feared several times that she would ask a question he could not answer but with a lie. He hates telling outright falsehoods, especially to her.

Briallen's parting words should come as a comfort. The last thing he needs is for her to gain a true understanding of him. And yet, is it not the secret wish of every soul to be understood? Mysteries are lonely things until they are solved, and he is so very weary of loneliness.

He sighs deeply, then makes his way back to his tower room. It is safe there. A few hours of study are sure to satisfy the cravings of his mind and silence those of his heart.


	5. The Coquette

Sunlight gleams on the surface of the wide stream that wends its way across the Exalted Plains. Puffy white clouds, as pretty as a painting, are reflected in that rippling surface. It is a perfect day for travel, but the fine weather doesn't quite suit the local atmosphere. This land is like a gaping wound, oozing demons and undead. The Veil is paper-thin here, and Solas's magic feels stronger than it has since his awakening over a year ago. It is a tantalizing reminder of the power he wielded in ages past. He savors it, even as his heart aches at the bitterness and sorrow that clings to the soil and stone under his feet.

He hears soft murmurs behind him - Cole's voice. The spirit seems drawn to halla, particularly the golden halla which he helped herd back to the Dalish camp earlier. Now he is talking to the herd in a very low, serious voice. Solas wonders how much they understand.

"I suppose we will not be fording the stream here," he comments aloud, peering at the tall embankment across the stream.

Cole goes quiet behind him. A moment later, he is standing at Solas's side, following his gaze. "Briallen was speaking to the Keeper of going southeast. She wants to help the clan."

"Naturally," Solas sighs, "even though that has little to do with our reasons for being here."

"She didn't know there would be Dalish," Cole says, sounding a touch worried. "She is happy to see some of her people. Cassandra is uncomfortable, though."

Solas can easily believe that. Cassandra likes situations and people with which she is familiar. She likes to feel that she is in control, at least to some degree. But when it comes to the Dalish, only Briallen knows the protocol for peaceful interaction. Solas certainly never had much success in his own attempt to reach out to various clans.

He pictures Briallen talking to the clan with her usual wit and animation. Is she captivating the Keeper now, earning his trust with her charm, intelligence, and sincerity? Are the Dalish wondering what to make of her, or are they accustomed to that particular blend of passions, strengths, and foibles which Solas finds so refreshing?

"She was asleep," Cole murmurs, "but she found you. You took her back to where she fell. 'I felt the whole world change.' Heart beating, can hardly breathe. And then she--"

"Cole," Solas cuts in quietly but firmly, "you need not remind me."

Cole lowers his head. His features are screwed up in distress. "You _want_ , but you're afraid."

Solas doesn't reply. His feelings for Briallen have grown more complicated of late, and the kisses he recently shared with her in the Fade did nothing to simplify them. He supposes he should feel grateful that Cole remarked on his emotions here, while they are alone, rather than in mixed company. Solas knows he should work harder to mask his thoughts, but Briallen makes that difficult.

She chose just the right moment to approach him. He was in the Fade, but he had not left the familiar, half-painted walls of his quarters. His thoughts had drifted, but his sleeping mind had remained close to home. And then there she was, bursting into the room with all her usual energy, completely obvious to the fact that she had bid him goodnight not an hour earlier.

She asked to get to know him, and he could not resist. Before, on the ramparts, she had called him a mystery. He had not quite liked that. There were many things he could not tell her, but she had earned _something_ from him. Some fragment of truth - a little glimpse into his heart. And so he took her to Haven and told her a story. He was honest, up to a point, and she rewarded him with a different kind of honesty, giving way to impulse and desire. He found himself powerless to resist her.

Everything that happens in the Fade is real, but not all of it is _true_. In the wake of those kisses, he finds it difficult to know what he truly wants. It is even harder to guess what _she_ wants from _him_. Sometimes, she is a mystery too.

"When she looks at you, she can't feel the ground beneath her feet," Cole murmurs. "Floating, flying, falling. Up is down and left is right. Joy jumbled up with fear, and she _likes_ it. She likes the confusion. I don't know why she likes it."

Solas lets out a harsh breath. He doesn't want to have this conversation with Cole, but apparently it's happening anyway.

"She likes excitement," he replies in a clipped voice. "Confusion and fear can be invigorating, but what once was exciting soon becomes mundane. Then one must find new sources of excitement."

"Doubting my constancy already?" calls a familiar voice. Briallen sounds both amused and slightly rueful.

Solas turns to look at her. She is dressed for travel, and there are splashes of mud on her boots and along the hem of her long gray coat. Her hair is falling out of its braids already. Pale, feathery strands flutter in the wind, and she has to tuck them behind her ears to keep them out of her eyes. She is smiling, and those pale ocean eyes are dancing with mirth. He wonders what she has to be so amused about. He doubts his own words could bring such a glow to her features, but then, he has never been good at predicting her reactions.

"I understand you have been making new friends," he comments, sidestepping her question.

"They seem to like me well enough." She comes to a halt beside him, a little too close for comfort. "They are less certain about the Inquisition."

"I suppose one could hardly blame them for that," Solas comments. "I have no doubt most of the Inquisition would feel the same about them."

"We need all the allies we can get," Briallen says, looking a little less cheerful.

Sometimes, when that effervescent smile fades, he can make out subtle hints of exhaustion in her face. New fine lines across her brow, a touch of darkness under her eyes, and other small details that become eclipsed when she is in good humor. The burden of command weighs heavily on her, even if she rarely shows it. She is neither as boundlessly optimistic nor as endlessly energetic as she often appears. He should be doing more to support her.

If only their friendship hadn't become so complicated of late.

"Cole, I've asked Cassandra to return to camp with a message, and I want you to accompany her."

Solas lifts his brows questioningly at Briallen, but Cole appears to be commanding her full attention at the moment.

A series of emotions play over Cole's face - confusion, nervousness, doubt, and an innate desire to please all vie for dominance - and Solas feels a touch of pity for him.

"Cassandra isn't going to like that," Cole finally points out.

"I have already informed her that she _will_ like it," is Briallen's dry response, and Solas has to smile. He would have loved to hear that particular conversation.

Cole doesn't look very convinced, but after another gentle order from Briallen, he eventually disappears - quite literally -  to join Cassandra. Solas hopes the spirit will refrain from appearing before the Seeker in a puff of smoke. That seems a good way to get stabbed.

Briallen is quiet beside him, contemplating the water with a distant expression. He watches her covertly, wondering what thoughts are flitting through her agile mind. Did she send Cole with Cassandra to secure this moment of peace? If so, he has no wish to disturb her. Companionable silence is something they do well. There is comfort in sharing a space with someone without trying to fill it with words.

But Briallen doesn't allow the silence to stretch out very long before she murmurs, "You said you needed time to think."

Solas eyes her, but she's still peering down at the stream with an abstracted expression. He thinks back to that brief conversation in his study after their meeting in the Fade. He was cautious then, far more so than he had been in the Fade. Within that memory of Haven, he'd lost his head, returning her kiss with gusto as his spirit soared… But back in the physical realm, sense returned.

"I remember," he says. "I still do."

"You didn't mention the reason for your doubt. I didn't ask many questions; I wanted to give you space. But you should have told me that _I_ was the problem. We could have worked on that."

She's looking at him now, her eyes fixed on his face with such intensity that he's almost mesmerized by them. Her earnestness and passion are entrancing.

They are a distraction he doesn't need right now.

"You are not the problem," Solas tells her. Then he is forced to amend with, "Not entirely. There are so many other reasons why a relationship between us would be imprudent."

"But I am part of the problem," she presses. "You think I'm playing a game."

He has plenty of reason to think so. He has watched her flirt with at least half the Inquisition. He heard her dismiss Cullen as 'old' and unworthy of her interest. Why shouldn't he doubt her feelings, when he is both older and humbler in station than the commander she has already rejected?

He finds himself fingering the wolf's jawbone hanging from his neck. It is constant reminder of his purpose, no, his _obligation_ , and the last thing he needs is to be pulled off course by the fleeting crush of a young hoyden.

Even a fierce, intelligent, and adorably freckled young hoyden.

He can't tell her the principle reason why he can't afford attachments. But he can voice his lesser concern. He owes her that.

"How many members of the Inquisition have you kissed?" he asks quietly.

Briallen's eyes flash - with humor or with anger, he's not quite sure - and then she turns away. "Four or five, perhaps? Not counting you." She stoops to snatch up a smooth pebble from the bank of the stream and turns it over in her hands. It's quite a pretty stone, translucent with flecks of some mineral that gleams like silver. "A couple of them I even took to bed. Why, are you retroactively jealous? They were just flings."

He can guess at one of the people who shared her bed. He saw Briallen in the company of a redheaded human scout, and the sexual chemistry between the two women had been hard to ignore. But that was back in Haven. Has Briallen taken another lover since arriving at Skyhold? The thought of her in the arms of another, and in the bedchamber which had once been his own…

Yes, damn it. He is jealous.

 "And how am I to know that I am not a fling?" he asks, his voice coming out rather sterner than he intended. "You must admit, your attention tends to wander."

"I don't admit it," she snaps, forming a fist around the smooth pebble. Solas wonders what kind of bruise that little stone would leave behind if flung at close range. But she doesn't look angry enough yet to pelt him with rocks. Just impatient, as if she thinks he's being rather stupid, and she's waiting for him to catch up.

"No?" he murmurs. "The evidence--"

"Is obvious," she interrupts. "I told you, I'm an open book. You simply don't know how to read, it seems."

He can't repress a faint smirk. "Or perhaps you're more mysterious than you give yourself credit for. I do pride myself on my ability to read people, but you have always been a blind spot for me."

"Always?" Briallen searches his face with a hopeful glint in her eyes, but her posture is vaguely defensive. "Was that because you didn't care, or because you didn't like me?"

"The latter, at first."

"And then?"

"I was blinded by other feelings."

"Other feelings?" she echoes. Her defensiveness ebbs away, and her eyes widen. The pebble slips from her slack fingers and plops into the water.

If she keeps standing there looking at him like a lost child who has just been offered kindness for the first time, he's going to lose his head again. He thinks of the little girl who was given away by her birth clan and tortured by her second clan, only to find happiness at last with Clan Lavellan. She probably looked just like this when Lavellan's Keeper allowed her to stay.

"We've spoken of my feelings," he points out, wishing the break the tension. Her expression is too open, too full of meaning. Yes, now he can read her, a bit. Now he's seeing too much, and he wishes for blindness again.

"You said that I 'change everything.' That's not very specific."

"It seemed to please you at the time."

There's an unusual mixture of sweetness and self-deprecating humor in her sudden smile. "'Everything' is a big word. Who wouldn't be pleased? It was only later that I realized I had no idea what it meant. What did I really change? By 'everything,' are you sure you didn't mean 'nothing?'"

He shakes his head. "We started this conversation talking about _your_ feelings, didn't we?"

"You're not evading my question _that_ easily."

"I have no other answer for you. I meant what I said."

"So, what? I shattered your world?" she asks, only half-serious. "Blew it all to pieces and stomped on the remains? That at least sounds like me."

"Yes," he whispers. It's an apt way to put it, actually. She broke through his prejudice like a fist through glass and put his pride to shame. He's still waiting to see what kind of world emerges from the rubble, but he suspects he'll find beauty there that he never noticed before.

Every time he looks at her, the ground under his feet feels less stable. If he falls… will she fall with him?

Unaware of his train of thought, she raises her eyebrows, then sighs. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you're questioning my motives, in that case."

He says nothing. If he tries to speak, he might lose even the pretence of calm, and reveal the war waging within his heart.

A long silence stretches out between them. Then, "I've had a lot of fun over the past decade," she says, with just a hint of a smile. "Yes, I started young. I like connecting with people in that way. I like the closeness, even if it's temporary. I like knowing someone wants me. But it ends. It always ends. My first… everything? I still think of her as my best friend. But everyone else was just fun."

Solas watches her intently. There is no shame in her voice or expression, and her frank, unembarrassed way of describing her sex life is bracing. But her desire to be wanted, and her conviction that 'it always ends,' remind him of her tumultuous past. There is a loneliness in her that calls out to his own.

Her smile fades and an uncharacteristic look of vulnerability takes its place. "Sounds unromantic, doesn't it? All my fun. But it's not supposed to be romantic. I am, though. I can be."

"I believe you," he murmurs.

"No," she says, holding out a hand to silence him, "let me finish. This is awkward. Let me get it out."

His brows draw together slightly, but he nods.

Briallen draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. "I knew it was going to be shocking, when it happened. I was right. It was, almost literally. You remember when we met? You barely looked me in the eye before seizing my wrist and jerking me around like a ragdoll."

"I don't recall the ragdoll part," he interjects, feeling like something lovely and warm is beginning to blossom deep within him.

"Hush!" she orders. "You _did_ jerk me around, _and_ you fed magic into my hand. I _felt_ it, so you can cut it out with that 'I did nothing' shite."

"I merely gave a bit of direction to the power of the mark."

"It's still my turn to talk!" she says imperiously.

"You can't expect me to listen to such gross mischaracterizations of my actions in silence," he protests, half-laughing. "Surely I have a right to defend myself." The warmth is rising, spreading through him.

She shakes her head, but her lips are twitching with repressed humor. "No, you don't. You manhandled me into closing the breach, and then you looked at me like… like…"

He lifts his brows, but refrains from speaking this time.

"Like you hated me," she concludes. "Just for an instant, but I saw, and I wondered, and I watched you, after that. I wanted to know why someone like you would hate me before we even introduced ourselves, especially after I found out that it was you who kept the mark from killing me."

"I did not hate you," he murmurs.

"You did!"

"No, never. Not then, not before, not after. The worst I ever felt was a mild dislike, born of resentment. You were not the hero I wanted for Thedas."

"Well, I guess that makes sense. I can be ornery," she says.

"Quite."

"And stubborn."

"Yes."

"Which is probably why I realized from the moment I saw your face that you were going to be the one to hold my heart forever."

For a moment, the words barely register. They sound like one of her throw-away lines, a joke, not a true admission of her feelings. Then Solas's breath stutters and his eyes widen. He stares at her for a long, long moment, seized with doubt. But that hint of vulnerability has returned to her expression. Her eyes are on his face, waiting and watching for his reaction.

She means it. She's serious.

"I…" he attempts, and then falls silent.

"I wasn't in love," she clarifies quickly. "Love at first sight is a pretty myth. But I knew. I knew it would happen."

"Bri…"

"Because I'm stubborn, and I decide things, and then I can't let them go." Her voice trembles. "And because I don't want anything to be easy. If it's easy, you lose it."

Solas reaches for her hands and grasps them tightly. He can feel the aura of power clinging to her left hand - an unsubtle magic, at once foreign and breathlessly familiar. Like her. Like this moment, sundrenched and windblown and perfect in all its minor imperfections. Even the silent groans of the war-torn earth cannot rob him of this feeling, this disquieting mingling of trepidation and joy and something more, something he dare not name.

"I'm not going to lose you," she whispers. "You don't have to love me, but you'll never be rid of me."

"Bri, you foolish girl." His voice is hoarse, but full of tenderness.

"Yes, yes. That's me. A frivolous and impulsive child, entirely unfit for my exalted station."

He releases her hands only to cup her face instead. "Precisely," he says, and kisses her.

At first she melts into the kiss as if all the tension has gone out of her, but that only lasts a few moments. Before long, she seems to be battling him for control, grabbing handfuls of his tunic, teasing him with her tongue, pressing herself as close to him as she can. He chuckles softly against her lips and lets her have her way.

She is sweet, tantalizing, and aggressive by turns, and perhaps it's no wonder that he forgets both himself and his surroundings for a time. But then clarity returns with a jolt, and he pulls away.

"Forgive me," he gasps. "That was premature."

For a moment, Briallen looks too dazed to realize what had happened. Her lips are swollen and her cheeks are pink and he finds it a struggle not to pull her close again.

But then a rueful chuckle escapes her. "Oh, I see. That wasn't a yes?"

Guilt twists in his guy. "I still have some thinking to do."

She shakes her head, but she doesn't seem particularly upset. There's still a dreamy look in her eyes and smile on her lips. "Well, at least your desires aren't in doubt."

"There are complications…"

"I get it. You're a complicated man." She pats him on the shoulder lightly, a kind of "there, there" gesture that makes him want to laugh. Or possibly cry. His feelings have been in a fine tangle since their walk in the Fade, and this has done nothing to help matters.

But he can't regret it. He'll cling to this memory forever, whatever the future brings.

They looks at each other for a long, awkward moment. Briallen is still smiling faintly, but her haze of lust appears to be dissipating, and her mind is turning to more serious subjects. For his part, Solas rather wishes he could plunge into the cold water flowing beside him, but he contents himself with a judicious adjustment of his tunic.

"So," Briallen says.

"So."

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the Dalish camp. "I'm going to see if I can convince them to sell me some of their wares. Dalish craftsmanship, you know."

"Of course," Solas says, and then grimaces at the meaningless of his own utterance. "Their equipment seems superior to that which can be found in human towns," he amends.

"Right." Briallen hesitates for a moment, then lifts her hand in an odd sort of wave before making her way back into the camp.

A sigh escapes Solas. It feels like a spell has been broken, and cold reality has crowded out a deliciously warm dream. As important as their stolen moment was, it hasn't actually changed anything. The barriers between them still feel almost insurmountable. The worst of it is that he cannot even explain why he hesitates to embrace something they both so clearly want. It's unfair. Even cruel. And there is no way to prevent her from getting hurt.

_What did I really change? By 'everything,' are you sure you didn't mean 'nothing?'_

Perhaps he's wrong, though. Perhaps there is a way. Because for all that she changed his world, he seems to have done the same for her, and not merely because it was his orb that left her marked.

She loves him. He can start there. He can work with that. Love is a powerful tool, and an even more powerful weapon. There must be a way to turn it in his favor. No, in _their_ favor.

Behind him, a halla rears and strikes the ground with its dainty hooves. The plains cry out for blood, and the Veil shivers.


	6. The Idealist

Solas jerks awake to hear the final note of a scream fade into the night. As he banishes lingering impressions of dreamscapes and memory, he turns to see the dark shape of Adamant looming in the distance. Even here, in their little firelit camp, there's something menacing in that indistinct shape, like a crouching spider sucking its prey dry. And even here, the wind carries the tell-tale stench of a battle hard-won, redolent of smoke and death.

Nearby, someone is sobbing quietly. He sits up and scans the camp, which consists of three tents arranged around a central campfire. A scout stands watch, and two more are asleep on bedrolls like his own. And by the fire, Blackwall sits with the weight of ten ages bowing his shoulders and a glitter of tears on his hollow cheeks.

But the sobs don't come from Blackwall. He is burdened by cares enough for a hundred men, but he mourns in silence. No, the haunting, broken sounds are coming from the Inquisitor's tent.

"We called them sleep terrors," comes a low, gruff voice.

Solas turns back toward the fire, lifting his brows in a mute question.

"When I was a soldier," Blackwall continues, "it took some of the men that way. They'd start screaming and crying. We'd grab them, shake them, thinking it was nightmares. But we couldn't wake them up, no matter what we did. It was like they were trapped. Next morning, they wouldn't remember a thing."

Solas's lips part, but he can't immediately find anything to say. So he stands and makes his way closer to the grizzled Warden - soon to be the last Warden in southern Thedas - and sits beside him.

"I have seen similar symptoms," he murmurs.

Blackwall nods. The fire glitters in his eyes. "Not uncommon in those that have seen battle. Though I hear it's most common in children. I wouldn't know."

Neither would Solas.

"It's hard, I suppose, when it's someone you love," Blackwall says. "It sounds like she's being tortured."

"She was, but that was earlier."

Blackwall grimaces and rubs the back of one hand across his damp cheeks. "Aye, I've never seen her like that - like she was made of glass and bound to shatter."

"I would rather say that she is made of stormheart," Solas murmurs, thinking of the lightning that lit Briallen's eyes in battle, and the way that she stood, staff in hand, as if no power in Thedas could move her.

"True." Blackwall shifts his position and heaves a sigh. "Hers is a rare strength, but everyone has their breaking point."

Solas gazes into the fire and says nothing. He doesn't believe Briallen has reached her breaking point yet, but perhaps she's never been so close. She didn't panic during their ordeal. Not during the siege of Adamant, and not in the Fade. She barely wavered, except for one single instant. But some sacred part of her soul was dealt a blow from which it might never recover.

Perhaps it was her innocence that died today - if a Dalish mage who has been traded around like an ill-fitting tunic can be said to be innocent. Maybe it was her sense of justice, or her faith in the power of her own will. Or maybe she just realized for the first time that no battle, however justified, can have a good outcome. Saving the world too often involves destroying pieces of it, and no one understands this better than Solas. Briallen, on the other hand, has not yet learned how to accept the necessity of loss.

Adamant left her horrified and furious. The Fade added grief to her rage. By the time she emerged from the rift and addressed the Wardens, she shone like a white-hot pillar of flame. She spoke with the passion of a prophet and the dignity of a queen. And then, nearly collapsing, she voiced her intent to take her rest as far away from those haunted, bloodied walls as her exhausted legs could carry her.

And now she is weeping in her sleep.

"You know," Blackwall says, "she'll never convince me that banishing the Wardens was right, but I admit no one ever had better cause. I hope she can put this behind her. The world still needs her."

"It does."

The choking, haunting sounds from Briallen's tent show no sign of letting up, and Solas can feel his agitation growing. His pulse is rapid, his hands feel empty, and his whole body itches with the need to act. Perhaps she isn't experiencing true horrors. Perhaps this is a "sleep terror," as Blackwall called it, and she will be fine in the morning. Surely it can be nothing else. If she was sleeping normally, her own cries would have awakened her by now. Like any self-respecting Dalish elf, she is a light sleeper. And if she was awake, she would never allow the whole camp to hear her grief.

Still, he is unable to shake the idea that she needs comfort.

He meets Blackwall's eyes, and the man seems to take his measure in an instant. "Go. For your own sake if not for hers."

It's the only encouragement Solas needs. He leaves Blackwall to the sole possession of the fire.

The scout on duty stirs and turns her gaze on him as he makes for the Inquisitor's tent, but only for a moment. Apparently, his intrusion on the Inquisitor's sleeping quarters is not considered worthy of much note.

Or perhaps the scout is just as concerned as he is.

Inside the tent, Briallen is curled into a tight ball, nearly shaking herself to pieces. He is reminded of her violent shivers when she was carried into the refugee camp after the fall of Haven. But this time, there is no smile, no teasing remark to set his mind and heart at ease.

Despite Blackwall's words, he attempts to wake her. He speaks her name, grips her shoulders, even presses a few gentle kisses to her tear-stained cheeks. But as it grows obvious that she will not wake, he curls himself around her and closes his eyes, waiting.

Eventually he lapses into a fitful dose. The Fade looms close, but at arm's length, and he drifts between fantasies and reality in his half-waking state. But when he feels movement at his side, he is instantly alert.

Light flares within the tent. Briallen is propped up on her left elbow, and a crackling ball of energy hovers over the center of her right palm. She holds it a little too close to Solas's face for comfort, and for a moment, he is dazzled.

"Solas?" 

Solas puts some distance between himself and her hand. "I believe so. I will tell you when my eyes adjust."

"What are you doing in my tent? And… why is my face wet?" She wrinkles her nose and dismisses her spell so that she can wipe away her tears on her sleeve. 

Solas creates a smaller, dimmer, and far less deadly point of light. He sends it to hover near the spine of the tent, and then takes a closer look at Briallen's face. Her skin is blotchy and her eyes puffy from crying. There is something in the exaggerated paleness of her skin and the darkness of the rings under her eyes that make her appear not merely grief-stricken and exhausted, but truly ill.

He draws closer and places a hand on her forehead, testing for fever. She doesn't move away, but her gaze is expectant.  
  
"Solas?" she repeats softly.

She doesn't have a fever. Solas is relieved, but he finds himself reluctant to withdraw his hand. He brushes a few strands of hair away from her eyes. "You were crying in your sleep."

"I can tell. My head is pounding. Why didn't you wake me?"

He finally allows his hand to fall at his side. It feels empty again. "I tried, but I was unable to rouse you. It was as if you were trapped in your dreams."

She looks puzzled. "I don't remember dreaming about anything, though."

"Perhaps that is just as well."

A pause. "Perhaps," she agrees.

Solas waits a few more beats, watching her face as his heart aches with the need to wipe away her pain. But he is an intruder here, and he knows how little Briallen is wont to share her sorrows with anyone, even him. "Would you like me to go?"

"No," she says before he has time to finish his question. "Stay. I need…"

"Yes?"

"Just stay."

He nods silently and settles himself comfortably on the ground.

Briallen shows no immediate sign of wishing to converse further. She is still propped up on her elbow, but her eyes are haunted and distant. Perhaps his presence is all she requires. Maybe she just needs a warm body next to her as she struggles to find meaning in pointless tragedy. He doesn't mind being a silent crutch, a voiceless comfort. It is better than being dismissed from her side.

He's just beginning to doze again when she breaks the silence.

"I made the right choice."

There's something fragile about her tone, and when Solas opens his eyes, he can see her lower lip tremble in the dim light.

"You do not need me to confirm it," he says.

"I wasn't asking for confirmation. I know it was right."

"But it still devours you from the inside, like poison."

Briallen closes her eyes and bows her head. "Yes."

Solas knows which choice she is referring to. She showed not the slightest hesitation in banishing the Grey Wardens from southern Thedas, and he doubts she feels any regrets about it in retrospect. No, she is speaking of that last, dire choice made in the Fade. She is thinking about blood spilled on an altar of sacrifice, and a lone Warden who will never see her love again.

"You are beginning to see the ugliness of leadership," he comments. He can certainly sympathize with that.

But she startles him with a violent shake of her head. "I knew it would be ugly. I've seen its ugliness for myself. I've felt how it can be abused, and I have the scars to prove it. I knew leadership would bring pain, but I made a vow to myself at the start that I wouldn't let it change me. But how can it not? How do I condemn a friend to death without hardening my heart, just a little bit?"

Solas can barely repress a flinch at those words. He thinks perhaps his eyes have given him away, but fortunately, Briallen doesn't seem to have noticed. Perhaps she is too lost in her own head to be as observant as usual.

"By the time this is all over, will I have turned to stone?" she asks forlornly.

Solas sits up slowly and repositions his little pinpoint of light so that it isn't shining directly on his face. He doesn't trust himself not to reveal some part of the pain her words have dredged up. It only serves to remind him that his own heart isn't hardened enough. 

"Is that such a terrible prospect?" he asks. Even his voice is tense, he realizes.

"The worst." 

He shakes his head, growing frustrated. He cannot watch her cling to her integrity without feeling how deeply his own has been compromised. But he sacrificed his honor on purpose, for the greater good. It was his to sell, and he exchanged it for the hope of a better future. How can she avoid similar dark bargains while she is responsible for half of Thedas? She is a remarkable person - perhaps the most remarkable he has ever encountered - but she is fallible. She will make mistakes, she will suffer failures, and yes, she will have to learn to harden her heart.

"You are an idealist," he says, rather more sharply than he intended. "There was never a hope that you would weather your time as Inquisitor unchanged." 

She digests this in silence for a while, her expression more thoughtful than offended. "I suppose I am," she finally agrees "but if change is inevitable, it falls to me to make sure it's for the better." 

"That is not necessarily under your control."

She actually laughs at that. There is bitterness in the sound, and it's not accompanied by any flash of humor in her eyes, but it's still somehow reassuring. If Briallen ever stops laughing at life, that's when he'll become truly concerned for her.

"I can't always control my circumstances," she says, "but I can control my own reactions. When I make mistakes, I can choose to learn from them. And when the world falls to pieces, I can choose to pick it up, one piece at a time if necessary."

Solas can't repress a smile. Yes, she is an idealist, and yes, disillusionment is coming for her. But there is something rather magnificent about the strength of her conviction.

"Then you seem to have answered your own question," he points out. "You will not turn to stone."

"No," she agrees, "I suppose I won't. I'll just… bleed internally for the rest of my life." 

She sounds almost resigned. By this time, she has gained enough control over her own features to mask some of her heartache. Her eyes appear less inflamed, and her lips no longer tremble. At dawn, she'll step outside dry-eyed and ready for the return journey to Skyhold. The others will see her smile, and they will be fooled into believing she has cried out all her sorrow. But he will know the truth.

Solas draws closer and slips an arm around her waist. A sighs escapes her, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

"You will not bleed alone," he whispers.

"Is that meant to comfort me?" Her breath tickles his neck as she speaks. "Should I be pleased to know you're so familiar with pain?"

"Is anyone unfamiliar with pain?"

"You know I hate it when you answer a question with another question."

He smiles and turns to kiss her disheveled hair. "I do."

" _She_ doesn't have anyone to share her pain," she sighs.

"Now you sound like Cole."

Briallen shifts and lifts her head from his shoulder. "You know who I'm talking about."

Solas does know, but it is a subject he was hoping not to revisit for her own sake. He gently steers her head back to his shoulder and then murmurs,  "The Hero of Ferelden, yes."

"I killed the man she loves."

"No," Solas says quietly but firmly. "Do not cheapen his sacrifice by taking all the blame for yourself. You did not create that impossible situation. Corypheus and the Grey Wardens did, and it was fitting that a Grey Warden gave his life to let us escape."

Briallen huffs softly. "He was more than just a Grey Warden."

"I know you liked him."

"Very much."

Solas feels a twinge of something that might be called jealousy in a less reasonable man. "You referred to him as a friend, even though you did not know him long."

"He is the only human who never seemed to think twice about the fact that I, a Dalish elf, am the Inquisitor." 

"I have heard that the Hero of Ferelden is also Dalish, so that is probably the reason why your elevated status did not seem strange to him."

"Yes." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a sad smile flicker across her face and then disappear immediately. "He told me so himself, although I'd heard rumors to that effect. It was so obvious that he loved her. And he was intelligent, funny, brave, honorable, self-sacrificing. How was I supposed to dislike him?"

Solas finds that the more Briallen sings his praises, the less regret he feels for death of Warden Alistair. "He seems to have had many excellent qualities," he says rather dryly. "You did not seem to take so well to Hawke, though."

Briallen looks thoughtful for a moment before responding. "I felt sorry for her. She's like a wounded bird, isn't she? She makes a great show of flapping her wings, but they don't carry her as far as they used to."

"You must have spent quite a lot of time around Cole recently."

She smiles weakly. "Maybe."

"Is that why you chose to let Hawke live?"

Briallen shakes her head - at least, she tries to do so without lifting it from his shoulder. It doesn't quite work. "No, it was a Warden's sacrifice to make. Alistair knew it, I knew it, and I think Hawke knew it too, despite her protests. Besides, Cassandra believes in her. She wanted her to be the Inquisitor. And Varric thinks the world of her. I think, perhaps… Thedas isn't ready for her to die yet."

"Perhaps not," Solas says, but he's not convinced. His assessment of Hawke was similar to Briallen's. She had the look of a fallen hero. There was a hollowness in her gaze that he has seen too often in his own reflection. Perhaps she will rise again, as strong and proud as before, but by then she might bear no resemblance to the hero Thedas needs. Of all future threats he might encounter, he would put her low on the list.

Briallen lapses into silence. He watches her out of the corner of his eye for a while, until he sees her eyelids droop, and then he rubs his hand lightly over her back.

"You need more rest."

She lifts her head sighs. "And what if I start crying again? I've already disgraced myself in front of the whole camp."

"You are allowed to cry."

Her smile is almost tragic. "No I'm not," she says frankly. "You know I can't let them hear that."

He is grateful for that reference to "them." They, the Inquisition, should not be permitted to see or hear their Inquisitor's weakness, but different rules apply to Solas. 

He leans in, hoping to be granted a kiss, and she meets him in the middle without hesitation. 

Briallen puts him in mind of a low-burning fire given new fuel. Despite her sorrow, there is something fierce in her kiss - some primal hunger roused by close proximity to death. She clings to him like she never means to let him go, and that's just fine, because he loves how she fits into his embrace. She's small but she's strong, greedy, and full of passion. It would be easy to get swept away, but he holds something back.

He's always holding something back.

Briallen pulls away finally. He sees a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "I suppose… sleep would be a good idea," she sighs.

"Yes," he says, experiencing a twinge of regret. 

She hesitates, and then she stretches out again on the floor of the tent. She looks vaguely apprehensive, but she's clearly trying to hide it. "And you'll stay?"

"Of course."

Solas curls up beside her. When he is settled, he flicks his fingers to dismiss the light hovering above them. But before he can complete the gesture, his hand is abruptly seized.

"No, leave it," Briallen says. And then she adds as an afterthought, "Please."

So he leaves it.

When Briallen drifts to sleep beside him, he finally allows himself to give in to the lure of the Fade. But he doesn't plan to wander far on this particular night. No, tonight he means to stand sentry over Briallen's dreams and grant her the peaceful rest she desperately needs. There will be time enough for grief tomorrow. 

He finds her easily in the Fade. She's like a steadily beating heart tucked between shifting realities, and all he has to do is follow that comforting sound until he is by her side. 

She's dreaming of halla. He doesn't know why that makes him smile. The creatures' white coats gleam as they frolic over meadows and pick their way nimbly through forests. A black wolf watches from the shadows, but they never seem to notice. 

Thunder rolls in the waking world. There's a storm on the horizon. But in Briallen's dream, the halla run free.


	7. The Regicide

This palace is glittering. The vaulted ceilings, imposing windows, and gaudy decor simply scream of gross wealth and self-importance, and Solas takes it all in with a smile. There is excitement in the air, whispers in the corridors, and the steady flow of dance tunes emanating from the ballroom. The atmosphere is more intoxicating than the wine, and he drinks his fill.

There is no end in sight to the festivities, at least not until the first light of dawn reminds the drunk and voluble nobility of their beds. It would seem that not even the fall of an empress could keep these Orlesians from enjoying a good party. Solas can almost admire the effortlessness with which they adapt their loyalties, their attachments, and even their morals to the circumstances of the moment. In this place, relationships are shallow, alliances temporary, and trust a meaningless concept. The Great Game is a dance with new steps, but a familiar rhythm.

It makes him feel young again.

He would not be averse to staying for the duration of the ball. A part of him would like to soak up every detail and savor every connection to his past. If he but closes his eyes, he can substitute his surroundings for a different kind of opulence, and hear a different set of voices speaking a language almost forgotten in the present age. The heat of mingling bodies, the taste of sweetmeats on his tongue, and the high notes of a violin give shape to the memories. Even the dark undertones of intrigue and danger are like echoes from a distant era, reminding him of a home he deserted long ago.

But perhaps now is not the time to dwell on what is lost. There is someone in this palace who he suspects is not in a humor for celebration, and he should probably go to her.

He does so, but not before collecting a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses from a passing servant. Most problems should be faced with a clear head, but in some cases, inebriation might be preferable.

The sounds of continued revelry slowly fade as Solas makes his way to the guest wing. A few servants move along the corridors, hastening to keep out of the way of patrolling Inquisition soldiers. They are on edge, and for good reason. He passes by one elf woman on her knees, scrubbing hard at bloodstains on the floor. She doesn't appear to be making much headway.

"Try vinegar," Solas suggests. She looks up, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and nods mutely. He walks on.

When he reaches his destination, Solas isn't surprised to find that Briallen's guest room door is flanked by two Inquisition scouts. After this night's events, an attempt on the Inquisitor's life is not outside the realm of possibility.

The guards make no move to bar his entrance, and in fact, one of them nods in greeting. Apparently it is no longer considered notable when he enters the Inquisitor's quarters in the middle of the night, even though he's only done so once before. The whole Inquisition probably assumes that he and Briallen are lovers by now. And it is true, though not in the physical sense.

He tucks the wine bottle under one arm so he can try the doorknob. It is unlocked. He enters without bothering to knock and leans his back against the door to close it.

The room is as grand as Solas had expected. Before him stands a large four-poster bed draped in blue brocade. On the opposite wall is a marble fireplace. Embroidered chairs, delicately carved tables, and objet d'art are tastefully arranged around the room. Gold leafing on the wallpaper glitters with reflected firelight. It is opulent, extravagant, and just bordering on vulgar. Briallen must hate it.

There is a balcony directly across from the door, and Solas can see it through the parted bed curtains. A cool breeze wafts into the room through the open windows. There is a solitary figure leaning forward with her elbows on the railing. Her long, loose hair and a gauzy blue dressing gown flutter around her. The outlines of an undyed cotton breast band and a pair of knickers are just visible under the sheer fabric. Such simple smallclothes for these lavish surroundings. It's both a refreshing and captivating sight, and he can't seem to take his eyes off her.

He wants to tell her how beautiful he finds her. He wants to go to her side and take her in his arms, to drown her pain in a shower of kisses. But he doesn't. Instead, he asks, "Is it wise to stand there in your state of undress?"

Briallen doesn't turn toward him, and the sound of his voice brings no change to her expression. She knew who had entered without looking. The unlocked door was an invitation meant for him.

"Are you concerned for my reputation? Don't be. These people like a spectacle."

"I am concerned for your health," he replies, moving closer. He doesn't join her on the balcony, but he stands before the open windows, a little to one side so she has space to pass by. "The night is growing colder."

That draws a faintly rueful smile from her. She pulls away from the railing and turns her gaze on him at last. "Are you here to say 'I told you so?'"

Solas meets her eyes and is nearly staggered by the depth of sorrow and bitterness he finds in them. For a while he just stands there and watches her, his silver tongue stilled by this glimpse of her suffering. Then he releases a slow breath and finally speaks. "I would never say anything so odious to you. Please, come inside."

She hesitates, her expression turning wary, and then mulish. But he knows how to handle her stubbornness by now. He remains silent, waiting. When a minute or so passes without any action from her, he holds up the glasses and wine bottle in silent invitation.

That gesture produces the desired results. She steps into the room, closing and latching the tall windows behind her.

"Nerys says that alcohol amplifies joy and misery alike," she says in a tone which suggests she's presenting the idea for his inspection rather than claiming it as an acknowledged truth.

Nerys, Solas has been led to understand, was the friend from clan Lavellan with whom Briallen shared her "first everything." He tells himself that the small twinge of discomfort he feels whenever her name is mentioned has nothing to do with jealousy. It is only the pooling of ignorance inherent to any relationship between two Dalish elves that invites his distaste.

"Nerys does not need to know," he says evenly. He makes his way to a low table set before the fire and places the glasses upon it. After dexterously uncorking the wine, he fills both glasses nearly as full as they can hold.

Briallen drifts after him, her tissue-like dressing gown still floating behind her as if blown by a phantom wind. How utterly Orlesian that garment is. How utterly unsuited for any purpose but to entice the viewer. And how well it performs that single function.

He sits down upon an overly-embroidered couch, and Briallen soon joins him. It isn't until she reaches for one of the glasses that he realizes she's trembling. The wine sloshes dangerously as she lifts the glass, so he reaches out to support her hand with his own. Her eyes meet his again, and now they seem to be asking a silent question.

"You did the right thing," he tells her.

She offers him a bitter little smile. "No. There is nothing 'right' about it. You can't twist this into something good."

She extricates her hand from his, clearly not wishing to be touched at the moment. He dutifully puts his hand in his lap and watches as she gulps down half the wine in her glass. A sense of desperation clings to her, but it is not of a scrambling, reckless sort. It is a state of despair, but not of resignation. It is an anguish that seeks understanding.

He doesn't know if he can comfort her. Not when the cause of her pain is somewhat obscured from his view.

When Briallen decided to allow Celene's reign to end and to make a puppet monarch of Gaspard, she appeared calm and resolute. He knew she had a firm grasp of the facts. She had seen first hand how the empress and grand duke had torn their empire apart in a pointless civil war. She had witnessed the suffering and deaths of commoners for the sake of royal vanity. Moreover, she understood that if this was a sampling of how little regard Celene and Gaspard felt for their human subjects, there was little hope for Orlesian elves under the reign of either. And while she voiced her awareness of Briala's shortcomings as a voice of the common man (or even of the common elf), Briallen recognized that she was the best of their available options. And so Celene died, Gaspard became emperor, and Briala took her place as the true power behind the throne.

For his part, Solas counts it as a good night's work, but Briallen clearly sees it differently.

"You asked if I had come to say 'I told you so.' Perhaps you should explain your meaning."

"You don't know?" she asks. Her knuckles are turning white as she grips her wine glass. "Weren't you the one who talked about the ugly side of leadership, and the inevitability of change? You called me an idealist, and implied that my ideals would be taken from me. That I would change, and not for the better."

He did say that, didn't he? And at a time when she was grieving. Why could he not have swallowed his cynicism and comforted her instead?

He knows why. It was because his pride was wounded by the realization that her uncompromising integrity made her twice the leader he ever was. He wanted to take that from her, to bring her down to his level so he could feel that he deserved her love.

Fenedhis. What a wretch he is.

"Forget what I said." The anger he feels toward himself turns his voice sharp. "I maintain that you made the right choice tonight, just as you did in the Fade. You served the greater good."

Briallen watches him for several long moments in silence. She sets her glass down on the table very deliberately, then turns her body toward him on the couch. It is the first time since entering the room that he has felt like she is truly acknowledging his presence instead of focusing on her own thoughts.

"You're missing the vital point, Solas," she says quietly, but with a note of unshakable certainty. "I had the power to save a life tonight. I didn't. And not only did I stand by and let it happen, but I ordered the rest of the Inquisition to do the same. People under my command will now live with the memory of watching the murder of an unarmed woman and doing _nothing_. Forget the 'greater good' for a moment. Understand that the outcome doesn't change the fact that the act itself was wrong."

It feels as though all the air has been sucked from his lungs. Still he fears breathing in, lest he choke on his own mistakes. But after a moment of sickening regret, frustration rises to take its place. "It is pointless to dwell on such things. You are a leader charged with the monumental task of _saving the world_. The greater good is all you have. If you pause to doubt yourself over the deaths of people who would never spare a thought for you if your positions were reversed, you will lose sight of the whole."

Briallen leans forward, pale eyes bright with passion. "If I can't regret the deaths I sacrifice while saving the world, I don't deserve this job."

"So regret them! But _later_. You cannot afford to doubt yourself now."

"Doubt is the only way I keep from turning into _them_!" Briallen snaps, flinging out her arm to point in the general direction of the ballroom and, presumably, its noble occupants. "I can afford a little doubt. I can afford to be angry at myself. I can afford to mourn the fact that I lost another piece of myself today. What I can't afford right now is a smug assurance of my own infallibility. I can't afford _pride_!"

Solas has to fight not to clench his teeth. "Sometimes pride is the only thing that keeps you sane."

Briallen's eyes narrow suddenly. "Is that the voice of experience talking?"

He should have known that question was coming. The undercurrent of this conversation, and of all conversations they've had on this subject, has always been a silent acknowledgment of secrets held. She expects him to know more than a wandering apostate conceivably should, and his references to the Fade grow less convincing every time.

Still, he cannot exactly tell her that he once led forces into battle in a war that spanned the continent. She cannot know that Skyhold was once the staging ground for a massive revolution. At least… not yet. And so he is forced to fall back on tired excuses. "In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless leaders rise and fall."

Predictably, she is not convinced.

"You didn't derive your entire personality from the Fade, Solas," she says as her expression relaxes into a weary, rueful smile. "Especially not that jaded outlook on leadership. Give me a little credit."

"When did this conversation become about me? Were we not discussing the challenges you face as Inquisitor?"

"I'm pretty sure we were actually discussing our opposing philosophies on power and responsibility." Her tone is dry, but there is note of disappointment. "And I was winning."

At least she no longer looks as if her entire world is blighted. Their brief clash of opposing views only seemed to solidify her faith in her own principles. She might always regret this night's work, but she won't allow it to slow her momentum. Through the Fade, through a blizzard, through battlefields and ballrooms, she will always move forward.

He feels a twinge of unease in the pit of his stomach. A thought surfaces in his mind, too unpleasant to acknowledge, yet too honest to fully reject.

"I suppose you were," he murmurs.

They have been waging a silent war for months and she _is_ winning. Perhaps the first battle - a battle for her heart that he didn't even realize he was waging - went to him. But he will never win the battle against her core values. His guilty conscience is no match for her strength of character. He wanted to use love as a weapon, but he'd forgotten the hardest lesson life ever taught him.

Love doesn't conquer all.

Something of his feelings must show in his face, for he soon feels the shock of a cold hand cupping his cheek. Briallen is tantalizingly close, and there is a hint of concern in her eyes. "We don't have to agree on everything, Solas. I always appreciate your advice. If I have grown at all in wisdom since this journey began, I have you to thank for it."  
  
Moved by her attempt to comfort him when her own heart is so heavy, he takes that chilled hand and bring it to his lips. Then he begins to chafe it between his own hands. "You have grown in so many ways since I met you," he tells her, "but the best part of you remains unchanged. I have come to believe there is nothing that can truly break your spirit."  
  
"I can think of a few things that might."

"No. I cannot allow myself to believe that."

He releases her hand and reaches for the other. He finds it even icier than the last. Either life in the Frostbacks has made her indifferent to cold, or sorrow has. Methodically, he works to warm this hand as well.

"You cannot? Solas…"

"There is a fire in this room," he says, quickly deflecting. "Have you forgotten its function? You will make yourself sick at this rate."

She's having none of it. "You won't allow me to have a few weaknesses? Must I always be strong, for you as for everyone else?"

Solas pauses in his efforts to warm her, but he clutches her hand in both of his as if he's scared to let it go. Under his fingertips, the pulse in her wrist is swift and strong. He stares at their hands in silence as the seconds pass. Her heart rate gradually slows. Finally, he meets her eyes.

"I cannot be one of them. Never let me make you weak."

"Of course not," she whispers. Her eyes soften. "Where do you think so much of my strength comes from?"

That isn't reassuring. That is almost the worst thing she could have said.

"Solas?" She tips her head to one side, watching him carefully. "Stop worrying. I know you have secrets. I know you're not ready to share them. Perhaps you think they will hurt me, but I'm not afraid."

"Stop comforting me. I came here to comfort _you_." Fenedhis, his voice sounds broken.

"Well, I don't feel quite as ready to throw myself off that balcony anymore, so job well done."

"You…" Solas stops, unable to find words with which to scold her. She's smiling in earnest now. He even thinks he can see a hint of her old mischief twinking in her eyes, and that's not a sight he's seen much of since Adamant.

How can he turn his back on this? On _her_?

"I love you, Bri. I will always love you." His voice is raw, but what of that? He doesn't need his composure here. Not now. Later maybe, but not now.

"Oh, I know." She draws closer still and rests her head on his shoulder. "You're like me. You never let go."

No. She's wrong about that. He can let go, when he must. He just doesn't know how to recover from the loss when he does.

"Ar lath ma," she whispers. He can feel her warm breath against his neck.

He will test that love to the breaking point. There is no other option. Because she promised he'd never be rid of her, and by all that he still holds sacred, he means to hold her to it.

And the epiphany he had but a minute earlier? That ugly truth about the limitations of love? It is already buried deep. Sleeping. Mostly forgotten.

Because he won't lose her.

"Will you stay?" Briallen asks.

"If I may sleep here on the couch," he answers, and then smiles when he can practically _feel_ her eyes roll.

"Yes, Mr. Propriety, you may sleep on the couch. You seem fond of couches. When you finally decide to give into your baser instincts, we should do it on a couch."

Ah yes, the mischief is definitely back.

"In the rotunda at Skyhold, I assume?"

"Well, I don't mind an audience if you don't."

After shaking his head in amusement, he places a finger under her chin and tilts her head up for a kiss. He feels her smile against his lips. Then a slow, sensuous struggle unfolds as they drift toward the edge of restraint.

Somewhere nearby, Orlesian nobles are busily forging and discarding alliances with their customary indifference for anything but the advancement of their own interests. Their hearts are cold. They cling to nothing but wealth and power. But here, in this quiet bedroom, Solas wraps his arms around Briallen and holds her close.

He tells himself that nothing will drive them apart. He tells himself that he will never let her go, no matter the cost. He tells himself he can have her and Elvhenan, too.

And he almost believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. For writing updates or general fandom-related squeeing, please follow @seekingidlewild on Tumblr!


End file.
